


A Fire Led by Blades

by Nanagrb



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshai (ASoIaF), F/M, Imported, Magic, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Telepathic Bond, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Jon Snow, Warging, not season 5 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanagrb/pseuds/Nanagrb
Summary: Their betrayal hurt almost more than the gaping wounds they left him with. As he was fighting to breathe, they placed him on a bed of wood and lit it under him with content smiles splitting their faces. Yet, as the flames grew, instead of eating his flesh away, they mended it. Jon was barely conscious enough to realize it was not some kind of haze born from pain.Things are not always as they seem, or as they are told. Some revelations may just change everything.(Work originally posted on FFnet under the pseudonym NanaGelva; EDITED and REWORKED)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 129





	1. Revival by fire

**Author's Note:**

> As said in the summary, this work is imported from my old account NanaGelva on ffnet. It was posted, and unfortunately last updated, a long time ago. I'm not going to make excuses, just know that life happens and it sometimes does not leave much space for things like writing fanfics. However, the fact that this story, my first real effort in fanfic writing, went unfinished so soon in the narrative bugged me. It made me go back and read it again. I'll admit, I cringed slightly at my then-writing. 
> 
> So, that being said, what I'll be posting has been edited and slightly reworked (the barebones are still there).
> 
> If you came here from ffnet, thank you very much.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it, and please, if you ever spot some mistakes, please feel free to point it out.

The first stab hit him right through the ribs. The cowards he had been calling his Brothers by Duty didn't even have the courage to face him with their betrayal. The knife lodging itself in his back became a starting call to the rest of his party made of « volunteers » that they could all attack him at the same time.

The title he was given, 'Lord Commander of the Night's Watch' died by the same hands that had bestowed it upon him. His subordinates tore the title away from him by mutiny and murder. And he, in turn, renounced his duty of guiding and protecting them by defending himself using the gift Joer Mormont, fallen at Craster’s Manor at the hand of another sworn brother, had honored him with after saving his life. Longclaw slashed and tore the flesh from his old comrades, seeking vengeance for his past and current wielder.

Jon knew he was one of the best swordsman, if not the best, of the current Night's Watch, and maybe the North. None of them could compete with him individually. However, their number and the initial surprise worked against him. Where he gave them fatal or heavy wounds in a few movements of arm, they pierced his flesh in small but numerous cuts.

Jon could feel the slow rivulets of blood moving down his body like rivers of crimson death. His head slowly went light and his eyes crossed more with each exertion of muscles. He fought as much as he could, alas, his moves became gradually sluggish and clumsy. He could feel the ever present cold of the North taking advantage of the holes in his body, slithering like deadly snakes in his bones and petrifying him even more. Death was approaching him like winter, inevitable.

After what seemed to him as both the longest and the shortest moment of his life, Jon finally fell down on his knees and drifted face first towards the frozen ground of the Lands beyond The Wall. Some of his ancient companions breathed out and even chuckled with the satisfaction of their final success over the “lord” Jon Snow. They were probably relieved they could escape with at least the hope of surviving if their injuries were treated fastly and if the dead didn't attack them right away from the call of loose blood.

Jon felt a hand grabbing his injured arm and turning him on the other side. His eyes could see the dark night looming over him. Although his gaze was hazed by the blood loss, he could discern the bright stars shining upon him like watchful spirits waiting for him to join them. The sight wasn't much different than when he had the Night Duty on the top of the Wall, the only difference was that he wouldn’t see the light of a new day this time.

The certainty of his approaching death called forth memories of warmth, love and family. The guarded but gentle attitude of Sansa: torn between the duty to her mother and the caring she felt for a brother. The toothy smiles of baby Rickon that already hinted at the wolf's blood he would show if his direwolf's feral ways were to be believed.

The adventurous curiosity in the eyes of the intelligent and brave Bran, Jon didn't know if he ever woke up from his long sleep after his terrible fall. The wildness and loving of the unladylike Arya, always ready to play with a sword or shove you down and then run to make you chase her playfully.

The respect and the love his brother Robb held in his gaze while speaking with him proving he considered him as much a brother as he did Bran or Rickon, he missed their trainings in the yard with the wooden swords that made them worthy men. Even Lady Catelyn was remembered then, the hurt and unforgiveness she felt for what he represented warring with the rare gentle attentions of her motherly nature towards a child.

However, what he remembered the most clearly at this moment, right before his untimely death, was the face of his late Lord Father, Eddard Stark. The stern but understanding face that guided him towards manhood, the time he always gave him along with thoughtful advices, even if he was only his bastard and not the heir. He always cherished him the same way he did with any of his rightful children. He respected his quiet nature and encouraged him to be the man he wanted. The smile and hug he bestowed him along with the key he always wore around his neck as they parted ways out of Winterfell. The promise of answers he told him he would find in the crypts if he himself couldn't tell.

His memories were shoved brutally aside when the Lady Melisandre hovered over him. He had forgotten in the frenzy of the attack that she came with them to better see in the fires without the presence of Queen Selyse or the leering men ever watching her. Now, he could see she was the head of the operation and again cursed himself for his stupidity. After all, she warned him that she could see daggers in the night, she only omitted to say that they were guided by her own hand.

"My apologies, Lord Commander. The Lord of Light showed me his victory from your sacrifice. The fires will burn tenfold once the flames engulfed your body after a great grief. Your death will serve the King well, Jon Snow, be proud you were useful even in death." She said in a strong and calm voice, smiling with the certainty her devoutness was rightful.

At that moment, Jon understood that they wouldn't wait for his soul to fully leave his body before throwing him in the funeral pyre. The Red God shall have his due. At least, Jon surmised, he ought to feel satisfied amidst all his sorrow that his body wouldn't be desecrated by the power of the Others. His Death will be final.

"Put him on the wood bed and let the spark engulf him Crow." Her smoky voice said.

Jon felt hands grabbing him roughly, pressing on his wounds and tearing his skin further apart. Soon, heat melted the frost on his black furs. The leathers he wore shriveled against his skin. Piece by piece, his garments slowly left his body, eaten by the hungry flames. The Valyrian steel of his gifted bastard sword heated like the liquid fire in the core of mountains.

Yet, Jon Snow felt nothing. The pyre didn't burn. His skin didn't crack and his hair didn't fizzle. None of the awaited pain came as he was burned alive. No scream tore out of his throat. 

Instead of Death’s cold embrace, he felt his cuts and wounds grow warm, healing up, the skin stitching itself back together. Instead of screaming in pain, Jon rejuvenated in the heated kiss of the pyre. He never thought that pleasure could be induced by fire, nor that it would be something as great as this. The fire awakened another one inside him that revived him instead of annihilating his flesh.

He could hear screams of terror and unbelief tearing the quietness of the Northern Night apart. None were his. His still living  _ Brothers _ flinched and scurried slowly away as his body regenerated instead of falling apart. They fell back, away from where their greatest victory should have taken place.

Lady Melisandre, could be heard loudly cackling, praising on her knees the great wisdom of her Lord of Light. 

Jon slowly moved, sitting up in a daze. Uncomprehending of the events. Still crowded by flames licking almost reassuringly at his skin. He felt distanced, as if in a far away dream. Dreams wholly unlike those he regularly had while seeing through Ghost or those where he first flew through the airs and then suffered in the damp dark. Confusion hazed up his mind, leaving him utterly incapable of rationalizing what happened.

Suddenly, through no conscious thought of his, the blaze he sat in spread itself through snow and wet earth until it reached each one of his betrayers and quickly burned them to ashes. Blood fled from their bodies and sizzled in the Fire. Screams could be heard through the clearing that should have been the home of his last breath. Some, those standing the farthest from him, while running away tried to get the garments they had away from their skin, at the risk of freezing. It was pointless. Those weren't mere flames with limited distance and heat, an otherworldly Power coursed through them. He could feel the magic in them just as easily as air through his lungs.

Unknowingly, he had called Ghost to him by instinct at the first bite of knives. He could now see through his eyes the spectacle of flames eating the sinners away from this world. Ghost approached, just as silently as his name hinted at, towards the Red Sorceress.

As the suffering men disintegrated at his feet, Jon slowly stood up and took slow tentatives steps towards the only other person alive in the clearing. He could see her studying him as if he was her own God personified. Wonderment and glee filled her eyes illuminated by the fire she had set loose. He stood now a foot from her, undecided. The flames slowly approached her, almost hesitantly, as if feeling her connection to them. He knew she would be at peace dying from the hand of her Fire God, but Jon’s inner vengefulness felt robbed by that prospect. Neither could he let her die from the cold, who knew if her sorcery would live on in her Frozen Life? A wight with powers was truly a dreadful prospect. Letting her get back to the Wall wasn't even an option he considered, her treason would not go unpunished.

It also would be better to let the conspirators think he died, and the still loyal to be led to the conclusion their expedition had encountered problems.

The gleam of his wolf's bright red eyes detaching themselves from the whiteness of his pelt and the snow, and the almost silent growl convinced Jon to let Ghost have his due.

"Any last words, Red Woman?" He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of any title other than her repulsive nickname.

"None. I told you before :  _ I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hollor in his greatness only showed me Snow. _ Maybe the message was simpler than what I thought after all, Jon Snow. My mission is almost complete, you are reborn and will fight against the Great Cold. Let me just give you a last gift my Prince. The dragon must have three heads, one is Wisdom, one is Care and one is Power. Only when the three become one the Enemy will succumb. Search for your remaining heads, my King, to let the Realm of Men live through the Long Night. I hope your endeavour will meet success for the sake of every living thing." She closed her eyes that became once again their normal color after gaining a red tinge during her prophecy.

Ghost chose that moment to tear her body apart. What once was a powerful tool the sorceress used against men led by desire and foolishness, now became a sea of red submerging the whiteness of the frozen grounds underneath her. Her red hair covered the area around her head making her seem like a manifestation of the powerful sun in midst of the beginning of the Great Winter. Nonetheless, she had a bloody smile gracing her features from seeing her dream take its first step into reality.

Once Ghost left her corpse, Jon set her body ablaze and watched as the Fire reclaimed one of his servants. As her limbs turned to ashes he inspected the other grey mounts gracing the soil of the cursed place. He couldn't feel anything right at this instant. He seemed empty from the inside and at once, fell onto his knees from exhaustion.

As he gradually slipped away to the land of Dreams, he could see through Ghost that the Direwolf carried him, still as naked as the day he was born, towards a small cave hidden by a tall tree covered in frost. 

As his mind went away from his companion, fading into darkness, he unexpectedly felt a strange feeling of encompassing freedom and joy. He didn't know what awakened these emotions, nor if those were entirely his own, but he could muse about them on the morrow when the entire situation would sink in too.

Jon lost himself to sleep and attached himself more firmly to his only remaining ally: Ghost.

As he woke up in the morning, still nestled to Ghost’s fur, none of the expected cold could be felt, only warmth. Inner fire. He opened his eyes and looked through the dark cave to assess any possible threat but found none.

As he walked outside to take a much needed piss, the sight he was met with was unexpected to say the least. A giant pale creature looked and approached him while the only thing Jon could do in his shocked state was fall back.


	2. Escape to shadows

Daenerys stood in front of the window in her personal rooms in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. She looked upon the Free City she conquered and now ruled. What was once the apotheosis of Slaver's Bay now was ridden of slavery. At least, that was what she wished to happen. However, centuries of customs and servitude couldn't disappear like light in the night.

The Sons of the Harpy reminded her daily of the unrest in the city. The displeasure they all felt, former slavers and former slaves, even for a brief instance, against the stranger, the woman with white hair, that came and upturned their system entirely. The Valyrian on their ancestral Ghyscarian lands. The nobles for their loss of power and treasures, and the poor for their confusion and hunger.

They were hungry. Some had profited of the loss of collars and made themselves free men and women that met success in their new ventures. But, for a lot of them, they had to now think about what they would do and not only obey to the instructions. Make plans, and above all make decisions freely. They had the liberty of choice for the first time in their lives. The exact opposite of their gruesome training. Some were let loose in the crowded streets of the Great Meereen without any real skills or connections. They just didn't know what to do, how to do it or even if they could with the skills they had.

She was torn between the compassion and the duty of a ruler. Ideally it would form a perfect cohesion for a perfect ruler, but reality and history showed the multiple failures at such a thing. Some would say that her ruling of the Dothrakis trained her to be a Queen. But being a Khaleesi doesn't prepare for the rule of a City, and even less of an entire Realm.

The Dothrakis were a special people. They were Horse riders and had a nomad culture. Except for some highly respected traditions, they didn't have strict rules nor a rigid system. The strongest warriors were judged worthy of rule, not the one with the bloodright, not the wisest. They earned it with the spilling of blood. When she was only the Khaleesi to what was left of Drogo's Khalasar, they obeyed her because of loyalty, hope for the future and because of what they witnessed at the funeral pyre where her Dragons came to life.

Daenerys felt overwhelmed and lost. Doubt crept up in her mind. She didn't know how to rule such a city, she had to admit the painful truth, if only to herself. It seems now that she wouldn't be the perfect Queen for her lost Kingdom, like everyone tried to tell her.

The arrival of the intelligent Imp, Tyrion from House Lannister, only confirmed the whispers of doubt she didn't want to think too much about. His tongue was the sharpest and most truthful one she ever heard. But it was always rightful. She was a Queen, thus everybody tried to accommodate her, but he didn't. He told her she would fail at being a good ruler if she stayed on the path she was on right at that moment. He opened her eyes to the fact that the people of Westeros didn't wait for her. Most didn’t even know she lived.

All that the common folk wanted was to survive under the rule of their Lords and the coming Winter. The kind and just Lords only worked for the survival of their territories and their families. Other Lords played political and waring games to further their status in the Seven Kingdoms or to defend their honor, avenge their dead.

None, however, wished for her return if they didn't expect to gain something from it.

A sigh escaped her as usual for the past days from the troubles brewing in her mind. The sound of knocking on her door and Missandei's sweet voice extracted her from her contemplation.

"My Queen, your Council is ready in the Chamber, they are waiting for your presence."

"Thank you Missandei." She walked out of her private chambers and went down to the room she designated for her personal council. As she entered, she could see everyone of them was there already, arguing about something.

Ser Barristan sat calmly, interjected only rarely but wore a frown on his aged face. Daario as usual annoyed everybody and loudly proclaimed his opinion. Grey Worm stood near the door and silently gazed upon the men fighting like children. Tyrion drank from his cup and replied to what he deemed stupid things as scathingly as usual.

They hushed gradually as they became aware of her presence coming to the end of the table. She sat down on her attributed chair and gazed upon each one of them calmly.

"Good morning. What seems to trouble you enough today to call me earlier than the convened time?"

"My Queen… your Dragons… They escaped during the early morning, around the first lights of dawn." Ser Barristan cautiously informed her.

Her reaction was instant. Fury rolled off of her in waves that they all could feel. Her violet eyes became as sharp as Valyrian steel.

"What?! How could they escape?! They were chained in a closed room without any light or possible exit! Tell me! How could they go from the prison I put them in?"

Her anger was palpable to every person present in the Council Chamber right at that moment. She had imprisoned them with heartbreak and tears she couldn't stop running down her face. Her sorrow at the memory was equaled only by the worry and anger she felt from the recent news. She didn't even let them answer her previous tirade filled with anger before continuing. 

"Is it the work of someone? A conspirator? Did you find a burned body in their cellar? Where is Drogon?!"

"No, Your Grace, it seems that Viserion and Rhaegal grew more fierce and powerful than we expected. They broke the chains holding the collars themselves and torched the stone door before breaking it by force. Witnesses saw them heading towards the sea and disappearing thanks to the pale light and mist of the early morning. Drogon, well..."

She interrupted Ser Barristan before he could continue after the short pause. "Where is my Drogon? Did he fly away from Meereen too?"

"No, but another farmer is waiting for you outside the hall with a blanket covered burden to hear him out."

She understood the underlying information. Drogon burned alive another person, most probably a child, from a nearby farming land. He was untamed and uncontrolled. She wouldn't have any subjects left soon if appeasement didn't come to her favourite child. She turned away from the table and looked through the window gazing at the see of Slaver's Bay.

"Collect any possible sighting of my dragons. I want to know where Viserion and Rhaegal are going. Drogon is also a problem, but I don't have any solution for now."

Tyrion's grave and pleasant voice answered her after a brief silence from the entirety of her councilors. "My Queen, if I may… During my research many years back, I learned that two winding horns were used by the Dragonlords of Old Valyria to call their linked Dragons to them. I don't know if their existence is true or not, nor what their connection really was, or if they would work on untrained dragons, but I could search it further in the various libraries Essos can offer."

She turned towards him, and looked pleased at his suggestion. Once again, she felt a spark of gratefulness towards Ser Jorah for the gift he bestowed upon her. The Imp had slowly become an important member of her Council. His intelligence and wisdom made her rationalize and question herself. He also brought knowledge that none of the other members could submit or even aspire of owning. She smiled to the Lannister, he may just prove himself to be her salvation, ironically enough.

"You have my permission. Everything you ask for will be provided. Take a few Unsullied with you if travel is needed."

Worry, anger and content warred within the Khaleesi's mind as she thought about her precious children and the addition of Tyrion in her advisers group. Without any further discussions, Daenerys left the Chambers and headed towards her courtroom to proceed the hearings, marching out with a heavy heart towards another aggrieved parent. 

* * *

Rhaenys strolled through the dark hallways of her residence. The somber walls seemed to absorb any light like in every other house in the large city. The Shadowlands were true to their name, only shadows thrived in the Old Asshaï.

She walked determined but light footed to her destination: the Great Library. The Citadel of Oldtown was often rumored to be the oldest and biggest center of knowledge of the known world. And it was. To an extent.

The days before the order of Maesters paced the halls of the sacred institution were one where knowledge of any kind could be researched and discussed. However the established new power restricted curiosity and wonderment to only what they deemed appropriate. Everything was monitored, maesters in training were limited in the subjects they could study. Every piece of knowledge regarding what they deemed sorcery and unlawful dwellings was destroyed as thoroughly as it could be. Some maesters tried to revolutionize things, develop new theories and answer further questions, but they were either squashed in their quests by the Elders or saw their golden collar taken from them.

Now the City of Shadows held or strove to acquire every bit of knowledge one could find on whatever the Maesters banned. They collected every book, parchment, object one could possibly study during their journeys out of the Shadowlands.

The Targaryen princess thrived in knowledge. She could remember early memories as a child where her father Rhaegar sat her on his reassuring lap and taught her how to read and write, or only read her a book he thought she would be interested in. It seemed she inherited her thirst of knowledge from him. The Targaryen blood was a powerful one and it guided her to Asshaï.

During the sack of King's Landing, the Spider, Varys exchanged her with a common girl resembling her as much as possible without any noble blood coursing through her body. For anybody that didn't see her regularly the lie would be believable. Nonetheless, Rhaenys felt sorrow at the thought that one more person had to die prematurely, especially such a young girl.

He tried to do the same for her baby brother Aegon, but he, unfortunately, inherited the frail and sickly nature of their poor mother Elia of Dorne. When the Rebellion neared its end, the infant was already dying more by each passing day. "Infancy sickness" she remembered the old Maester Pycelle saying. Varys had to leave her brother with her Lady Mother. Nothing could have saved them. She still mourned the death of her family and held deep regret she had never visited them to their resting place. 

The master of whispers had paid a Tyroshi ship master to deposit her in Pentos to the manse of Master Illyrio Mopatis. She remembers crying from the absence of her mama on the Narrow Sea, her tears melding with the saltiness of the large body of water. As she arrived to the lavish House, none of the embellishment had registered in her mind. For months she did not leave her bed and her tears stopped falling only when there was nothing left in her to cry.

When her one and ten nameday passed, Rhaenys began having dreams that told and showed her things no child should ever witness. 

Images of death reviving through the cold, icy spiders eating human flesh and dragons burning little farm children. As time went on, they became clearer, more frequent and sometimes less important and dreadful. When those "small dreams" as she called them, began becoming reality one after another, she realized that she had a gift.

She was afraid at first because she had read in a book that those who were gifted were fated only to bring unhappiness and sorrow to their household. Rhaenys simply couldn't wish that upon those that rescued and housed her for years, no matter that no real affection was between them.

She didn't tell anyone of her new found capacities and researched it silently in the times where she was unwatched. She read books upon books. In one of those, she discovered that Targaryen blood had already shown in past times its ability to foresee. It's what saved them from the Great Doom of Valyria.

One night in her dream she saw a somber picture of a city dwelling in shadows where knowledge will be the treasure she will find. She recognized it instantly from a map she had studied during her time with the Old Teacher at the Pentos Library. It was the great city living among shadows : Asshaï the Old.

Rhaenys figured out at that moment that she had to go. Her plan was simple and efficient. She used the name of her keeper and its influence to sail on a ship traveling to the east. The gold she collected was used to pay the captain and walk through the various Free Cities of the south of Essos when the embarcation stopped in ports.

Now, at twenty name days, Rhaenys was an established scholar that read books by hundreds.

As she was reading one of the newly added books she was interrupted by a dream, a vision that took over the control of her body.

Her legs moved first by themselves. She stood up and walked out of the Great Library. She went on the right towards the center of the city. Finally she reached her destination. She stood in front of the biggest construction in the heart of the city and mentally asked to see the Supervisor for a request.

As she entered the room that opened for her she addressed in the native language the man in the shadows used, waiting for her to speak.

"Please prepare for Rhaegal, he will land soon on the Third Grey Tower. Daenerys will join us soon after."


	3. Awakening

Jon stood frozen in front of the dragon. Because that is indeed what this magnificent creature seemed to be. His scales and thick leathery skin were made of the most creamy white color one could imagine. Gold and silvery veins that seemed like embroidery ran through the entirety of its visible body. It created shapes and refinery on the milky canvas that many men would pay dearly to admire endlessly.

The great horns sprouting from the top of its gigantic head looked like they were molded in a pool of pure gold, they gleamed in the frozen light of the North like fires bringing salvation. The same vivid golden sheen made the molten seas of his eyes. The orbs gazed at him appraisingly, but unexpectedly he couldn't detect any particular danger aimed towards him. His massive jaws opened slightly in a breath so warm it could easily heat the long nights on top of the Wall, letting him see the rows of black daggers he had for teeth.

He could see that the dragon crouched even more in front of him to get near his face, but if it didn't Jon was sure he would be as tall as a house. His giant wings were flexed on the ground as if they were arms. Claws of black stone decorated with golden ripples were so deadly they would easily cut a man in half with only a graze, sprouted from the giant appendages. Under his head a chain could be seen dangling from left to right slowly. The metallic gleam it led to was the proof this dragon had been collared and chained until recently.

A war rumbled in Jon, his emotions contradictory. He felt worry like one akin to a mother's about her children for Ghost, he hoped that the direwolf he could already hear moving behind him wouldn't be put in danger by the mythical creature. Fear too. It was omnipresent. One couldn't stand in front of a giant white dragon and simply stare unemotionally.

Every part of the creature was made to be feared: gleaming sharp teeth, blade like claws, unnaturally piercing gold eyes, tall and pointed horns, massive jaws and torrid breath. Only a fool wouldn't feel the urge to at least squeak in fear.

However, Jon must be a somewhat of a fool, after all, Ygritte had indeed liked to tell him incessantly he knew nothing. Terror was there for sure. But, oddly, it wasn't consuming him whole, like one would expect. He thinks at that moment he had been more afraid the first time he encountered what now seems like only a mere wight.

It was as if he knew that while the dragon was fearsome, he wouldn't wound him. Danger rolled from the creature in powerful waves but it seemed to Jon that none was directed towards him. It felt more like a warning to any other living thing in the frozen forest around them.

Jon slowly regained his composure. His breath calmed gradually to regular powerful inhales and exhales. His racing heart gently slowed down when the initial terror passed away. The muscles and bones of his body gradually stopped clenching as if ready to bolt from the slightest movement of the white dragon. He straightened his spine in a nonthreatening motion. Finally he looked right in the unnaturally glowing golden eyes of the creature and set his face blank of any readable emotion.

All of a sudden, his feet moved towards the dragon. By themselves. As he was mere inches away from his gigantic head, he slashed his right palm on one of the beast’s great fangs. Jon presented him his bleeding hand as if it was a precious gift only he could have.

Jon looked down, confused about the actions he just did. It felt like another entity, an ages old knowledge invaded him and made him move unknowingly.

His hand was still held in the air by an unseen force while the dragon appraised him silently. His snout approached the bleeding part of his body and sniffed it like it was a piece of meat. Maybe his ancestors made him cut his hand to die like he should have the previous night. What irony.

Suddenly, a mighty deafening roar was let loose from the great throat of the creature. Jon, if ever asked, would rationally say that no dragon roar could be anything but a warning or expression of anger, but deep inside he couldn't feel any malign intent coming from it.

What happened next was something the "bastard of Winterfell" never would have expected. As everything else that has happened since he had been betrayed by his brothers in arms the previous evening. The dragon licked his blood with its raspy and torrid tongue, a warmth so mighty that he could already feel the wound mending itself from the heat melting the sore skin. Next, he lowered his magnificent head until his snout touched the melting frozen ground, in a gesture of respect and kinship.

When he raised his head again, Jon could see that a connection was made and that the dragon was as much of a mindless beast as his intelligent direwolf Ghost. Meaning, not at all. Feelings and reason could be read in the golden eyes. 

Next, the dragon mirrored Jon’s previous actions thanks to his sharp teeth piercing the thick and otherwise impenetrable hide of his right paw. Paw that was then presented to him in the same way his own hand had been to the dragon.

Jon mirrored the beast’s previous actions. He guessed he should have felt disgusted by drinking a dragon's blood but the action seemed as natural and full of ancient instinct as his own self cutting. The dark red, almost black, blood was so hot it almost burned the entire course it ran: from the mouth, passing down the throat, to the empty bowels of his gut. Once he gulped it down, Jon knelt down in front of the mighty beast and lowered his head too.

As he was about to stand again, a surge of Power invaded his body and mind. His senses went erratic, his breath and pulse had never been higher than at this instant. The nerves in his entire body sizzled and contracted painfully in a rapid tempo. The very core of his bones seemed to shatter from the inside and felt eroded as if they were exchanged with Old Maester Aemon's. His muscles seemed to liquefy and become useless chunks of meat. His legs couldn't support him anymore and he lied down on the cool soil in the same position as the previous night when blood was pooling around his almost lifeless body. His vision was crossed and his brain unresponsive.

His eyes closed swiftly again as if he didn't have a full night of respite mere moments ago and his mind went black.

* * *

Bran felt a great shudder strike his body. 

Although he was reclining against a great oak with frozen leaves and snow falling on him, as it was wont to do in the Lands Beyond the Wall, the cold wasn’t the cause of his shiver.

It was similar in a sense to the encroaching darkness that were the Others and their slaves. Not because it was dark. Or foreboding. But because it held a sense of great magic. 

Magic was by many in the Known World considered gone from the realms of men. 

However, Bran had always felt, known in his core, that it was only an assumption, a false one. Growing up in Winterfell, one could not entirely believe that magic ceased to exist. It was present in every stone of the walls, in every new secret passage, in the Crypts and Godswood even more. 

His fall and the greendreams only confirmed his childish certainties. 

Yet, this magic was different. Whereas Winterfell’s, and the North’s magic was omnipresent and serene; and the Cold ones’ chilling and preying on every living thing, this new one felt like some kind of ferocious storm.

Powerful. Sudden. Violent. Unavoidable.

Bran hadn’t yet in his short life felt such a thing. It was foreign to these lands and to its people.

Nonetheless, he could sense that this new power would be crucial in the coming future. 


	4. Mighty Eyes

Jon could still feel his body trying to regain normalcy after the powerful surge of foreign energy that had invaded him so brutally, that he fainted like an innocent maiden on her wedding night. The state he was in was so indescribable it left him flummoxed, again. It seemed he really needed to get back what little intelligence he thought he perhaps one day had.

When wounds patterned his skin with gaping tender flesh and oozing blood during the fateful night, his mind had been fuzzy and slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness. Just as it tended to do now. However, the previous time, it was due to shock and loss of blood. Now that he had been healed from the numerous cuts, in some mysterious way, the deadly dance was even more questionable.

On the one hand, he felt like usual, well as much as possible in the current circumstances, while recovering from the power surge that had gone through his own body, his eyes moving under his heavy lids. On the other hand, the very next moment, he saw his own body lying on the frozen ground, being slowly moved by Ghost back to the cave he left earlier in the attempt to relieve himself.

The direwolf stopped at the entrance of the cave so that he wouldn't get too far away from the giant dragon that seemed to be dutifully guarding him, and protecting him from any creature of the Cold that was so common here, beyond the Wall.

The image of seeing his own self away from his eyes in itself was disturbing. 

However, what puzzled him the most was the strange visual. The precision of the details so much sharper, and the colors varying saturation and tones becoming different. Also it seemed like they regularly changed. One instant he saw the entire scene in a multitude of greenish nuances, the next he and Ghost gleamed red like fires in the night, the surroundings a bluish white as if indicating the level of frost they contained; only small insects and animals living in the high trees punctuated the scenery with warm colors.

Furthermore, what also roused astonishment in him, which he didn't even believe possible anymore, was that the acuity of this new pair of eyes wasn't the only increased sense. He could smell a multitude of different odors: the strong wild scent of ferocity and blood lust for their enemies in Ghost, the insignificance of the critters and other small animals scurrying in the trees and small shrubs that could be found around, and also a foul stench reminding him of death and frost scattered on the entirety of the land nearby. Jon supposed that last one could only mean that the presence of the Others was much more abundant in the proximity of the Wall than the Watch thought up until now.

The wind felt a lot more vivid and alive when it touched him than he ever recalled feeling in his life, not even when it was omnipresent on the peak of the gigantic wall of frozen stone the First Men had build. The frozen soil felt ambivalently alive and dead: the frost either killing or preserving what was in it.

It was unbelievable, the sounds he could hear. The scatters of prey running for their life, the slow crouch of the predators hunting their next meal, the soft rumble of a bear in its cave sleeping off the harshest of the cold time. 

Just as he was getting used to seeing, sensing, this way, the scene brutally changed: the eyes he looked through shifted their aim and gazed so far in the distance that Jon couldn't believe it possible. He saw the Wall, and a small garrison of Black Brothers heading towards the path he took with his ex companions the previous evening. His new hearing detected the powerful trot of a mounted horse in a long distance, the run of a small person crying in the frozen woods, and the solemn sounds and whispers of his Brothers.

No. Not anymore. Death relieved a sworn Crow from his careful watch. After such mutiny and betrayal, even if death hadn't claimed him for the shortest of times he wouldn't consider them anymore his Brothers by Duty. They couldn't be trusted. At least not everyone in the Black Order. Poor realm of men, relying on thieves, rapists, murderers and mere children to protect them from the greatest threat against mankind.

All of the new information that could reach him now through the exacerbated senses caused an indomitable feeling of terror and panic to overpower his sanity.

This couldn't be possible! No man should ever experience this. It was impossible. Unnatural! He knew that the dead coming back was as unnatural and he did witness it, but he fought against it…

If he had been in his own carnal sheath, the air would have befallen him due to the collapse of his lungs. He was choking without even being in a body capable of it. None of the accrued senses were now registered as he was fear stricken…

" _ Calm down, Jon. Hush the unreasonable fear. It will all be alright. You need not fear what is yours since the first breath you took. Power is yours to wield. Calm down..." _

The voice came out of nowhere. It seemed to be made of the smoothest silk wrapped around feminine hardness. It was low and almost had a raspy undertone, while still being seductive and soothing. He didn't know whom it belonged to, nor its intentions or even how the woman talked to him in his mind, but for now he would heed the advice and later mull over the consequences of listening to a ghostly voice. The slightly present accent it wielded with the spoken words helped him concentrate on the message. He couldn't concede to fear. The garrison was more important to uncover some much needed truths. He could further reason in due time. In his own body.

He dragged back his consciousness to the sight he was offered and observed the troop of men carefully, trying to determine who was in the coup and who wasn't. Most of his now lost men wore a mixture of worry and determination on their grumpy faces. He assumed easily that while some were indeed genuinely concerned by his, the Fire Woman's and their brothers' disappearances, others probably were only anxious about the success rate of the planned murder on their young Lord Commander. Jon thought he saw some brief expressions of grief and culpability on a little few of the present crows. Those were the men he had already guessed would be against him, it wouldn't break the already established pattern: older members that disapproved entirely of his election as Lord Commander and the initiatives he took, such as allowing Wildlings in their midst to aid them in their fight against the Creatures of Winter, and thus undermining every one of his actions.

He saw them slowly getting nearer and nearer to the fatal place it occurred. If there had been any witness, it would probably be a remembered stone mark told to small children and studied by intellectuals in how the youngest Commander of the Night's Watch was betrayed by his own sworn brothers because he held reason and compassion within him. And how the said young Crow rose from the cold hands of death as not an Undead Other, but as a Raging Fire.

As they reached the resting place of the garrison's and the Red Woman's ashes the men covered in black furs and leather looked frightfully at the small mounds of dark dust slowly being blown away grain by grain by the strong bone freezing winds North of the Wall.

The shapes of the monticules could only possibly be those of incinerated bodies. He heard many gulps of fear and sorrow as the watchmen realized what it meant. They were dead. After a few moments of mourning silence, a man spoke up.

"Ya think the wildlings burn'd the bods?" One of the crow asked. Probably one of the ancient thieves from the south judging by his lowborn manner of speech…

"Possibly. That is what I would have done, I certainly would not want the prowess of the Commander's sword against us. But what wildlings are there still so close to the Wall? They are all either inside our forts or far away from the immediate proximity…" He recognized Arlan by the elaborate language and the slight accent from the Vale. 

The valeman, when he was still an ordinary man, had been assisting as per usual one of the smaller lords commanded by the Arryns, when the said lording tried to rape his sister, a castle maid, groping her with threats ushered in her ear and in front of her own brother. Arlan ended up killing him when the arrogant male tried to cut his hand for interrupting him during "play time".

Jon was fairly certain that Arlan wasn't one of the conspirators. He spoke regularly with him, and the knowledgeable man understood the wisdom of the choice he had to make. What's more, he appreciated the ten years older Valeman for his sense of honor, worthy of a Stark. The slight insinuation of his doubts also helped to clear Jon’s suspicions.

"May be the Red Cunt made them all burn for her almighty God in the flames…" The mocking and anger could clearly be heard in the voice of a third man dressed in black.

Silence only met his supposition. Jon could see the older rangers that he suspected already shared frightened looks and silent whispers that even with the accrued hearing he couldn't hope to catch entirely. The only thing he decrypted was "the traitor", "think… he killed…" and "red whore!".

A smirk would have painted his lips had he been in his body. Nonetheless, it would also have been a smirk full of repressed anger and want for vengeance.

The men of the Night's Watch slowly recovered from their shock, and decided to retrieve everything they could from the remnants of their deceased brothers. Swords, furs and leathers along with very few pieces of gold and silver from the jewelry and pins were collected dutifully by the men. The gods only knew they needed it with the meager resources they had at Castleblack.

He could see as the group went back the way they came, that a few lingered to possibly see any other evidence or sign. Some tried to find any little thing that could hopefully indicate that any of their comrades survived, or maybe the sign of a traitor and deserter. Others tried to find any possible proof that at least the aim of the conspiracy was crowned by success.

Bitterness came at the sight of their hateful faces shaking inside at the mere thought he actually killed them all. What a surprise it will be when they learn he survived the coup.

Jon could feel his mind slowly drifting away and freeing the host it borrowed for quite a bit of time now. The transition was odd, as he felt himself slowly changing and the capacities that went with each body moved accordingly.

Now, he could feel the reassuring yet confusing sense of his own human body. The tips of his fingers touching the cold stone he laid on. The air shifting through his nostrils felt a tad cooler than before as well.

However, the harshest contrast was revealed when he opened his eyes. The colors, the sharpness and the power of the previous eyes seemed like a mere memory or fantasy now. He could only see the smoothness of the polished stone, the frost attaching itself to it and the frozen moss trying to reach the slightly more comfortable end of the small cave.

He sat slowly and leaned against the cold wall supporting him. A big, forced, intake of breath and then exhale made him calm again,helped him transition further into his real surroundings. 

As he let the light meet his eyes again, he observed silently the mighty white dragon laying at the entrance of the cave. His head slightly turned towards him, but still appraising the forest around them in search of an enemy to burn.

Jon quietly stood up and approached carefully the beast. He could hear and sense Ghost following him with its eyes, the ever watchful direwolf always protecting his companion. The Northerner knelt in front on the impressive head and slowly directed his hand towards the thick skin between the closed eyes.

"It was you that shared your mind with mine, wasn't it?" Jon asked softly.

Slowly, the pale dragon opened his golden pools and moved slightly forward with his snout to show the mere human it was acceptable to touch him.

As they skin connected, Jon could acutely feel the throbbing link that attached him to the dragon. He could feel that it was pleased and calm at the moment. No danger was in their vicinity. A slight hunger was present but he would hunt later with his bonded on his back.

"Viserion the Golden Specter." The acknowledgment of his name pleased the dragon, especially the addition the white-haired female never found, he could feel it from the warm thought transmitting itself mentally in his own gut and the hazy feeling of a distant memory he couldn't recall.

The words left his mouth by themselves. No utterance of his felt as natural and fitting since he muttered Ghost's name the time he found him along with his litter and dying mother, Robb at his side. The bond he shared with his direwolf was exceptionally powerful, he warged into him regularly, had wolf dreams of the future and also shared the feral hunts in the forest through the wolf skin.

Jon hadn't ever thought that it could possibly be found again, with the same strength, with any other living creature: beasts and humans alike.

He was proved wrong once again with the connection he instinctively secured with Viserion by the sharing of blood and mind. The bonds weren't different in their power, he felt as connected to the direwolf as the dragon, but the feelings the bonds evoked slightly varied from each other.

The wolf was more poised but feral, the dragon more prone to fury but reasonable. Similar but separated. Two sides of a same coin.

"You want me to become your rider, O Great Viserion?" asked Jon with a smile.

The dragon responded by straightening itself and roaring joyfully. A small laugh escaped Jon's throat, and the feeling of the missed joy he hadn't felt for months, even years soothed the Man from the North of his sorrows and sadness at the least for a moment.

He turned towards Ghost, and pet his snow white head while gazing in his red piercing eyes. "Can you wait a few moments here boy? I promise to come back very soon."

The intelligent beast only sat down in the cave and sighed powerfully as if saying it would be a fine time to catch some sleep after watching over him for such a long while.

Jon chuckled lightly and kissed the top of his furry head while thanking the great white wolf. He turned back towards the opening of the stone and approached Viserion.

Slowly, he sat on the nape of his powerful neck and grabbed one of the protruding golden pikes. "Ready? Let's go Viserion!"

A cry full of enjoyment escaped him as the dragon slowly lifted up in the airs and began racing with the winds.


	5. Roaring Winds

Acceptance. Rhaenys was very much familiar and acquainted with that particular feeling. It is what comes after all the heavier, mightier emotions: anger, sorrow, pain, terror… She had been introduced to it early in life after all.

It happened first when she understood that no family remained to her anymore, her brother she liked to play with in his crib had been butchered, her gentle father had been massacred and his body dishonored, her mad grandfather bled out on the ground, in front of his beloved throne, her kind grandmother dead in the ancestral seat of her House, and her loving mother succumbed to the wretch that was the Mountain.

She had heard in ushered murmurings the things that had happened to them. No one overtly talked about it, yet their whispers weren't quiet enough to show they wanted to protect the little girl she had been. They talked about the deceased King with contempt and satisfaction over his death. Then, they switched on the subject of her mother and baby brother and pity filled their tone.

Acceptance came again when she learned that no matter where she was, she would always be alone, a stranger to her companions. She didn't look like any person she met: she had white gold hair, deep amethyst eyes, olive toned skin and a small stature. It didn’t help that every new person she would ever meet in her life will stare at the scar she had on the face.

It began on her left cheek, just under her eye, and ran down to her collarbone. The closed wound wasn't ghastly, the various maesters and healers from Essos saw to that particular matter over the years with numerous salves and rituals, it was healed, very pale and barely puckered up from the rest of her smooth skin. However, it was constantly on display, plain to see for anybody with eyes. It didn't take any of her prettiness away, she had been told, alas, it didn't meet the expectations of what a lady of her rightful status should look like.

For months she had feared her “gift”, not comprehending what was happening to her, nor why, but with due time, she accepted it too. Yet another thing distinguishing her from the rest. She thought herself a monster, an unnatural being because of the teachings she had been given. Now she saw that those stemmed from fear of the unknown. However, those dreams had saved her life on multiple occasions, and other people’s too. This gift she hadn’t wished for, led her to Asshaï where she knew she would learn what was necessary for survival.

The feeling of acceptance isn't very unlike resignation in the perception of many a man. However, where being resigned also implies to be devoid of any hope or will to make something out of it, acceptance is just a necessary step. Acknowledging the truth of things can be greatly freeing in dire circumstances.

Acceptance was the only thing she could feel, however much unusual the moment was, as she walked through the perpetual twilight of the Shadowlands towards one of the highest towers visible even in the middle of the sea. Rationally, she was prepared to face Rhaegal. Ever since a dream showed her riding towards the dawn while fighting the night, Rhaenys had known that the green dragon was her mind sharer. She had also known that when he finally came to her it would mark the start of the greatest battle that ever was. The war between Life and Death personified would finally be declared.

Yet, rationality couldn't deter the anxiousness and fear away from growing in her mind. Terror gripped her ferociously at the thoughts traveling through her mind: blood, death, chaos… a dragon. Rhaenys had known even before their birth in Khal Drogo’s funeral pyre that Rhaegal was real, she had felt him take his first breath and let his first flames burst through, but nothing could have really prepared her to the roar heard in the distance. 

The sound startled the entire city. People that were accustomed to various kinds of sorcery, blood magic and shadow killers felt dread at the cry of such a beast, she could see it on their faces as she walked through the unusually full streets of Asshaï.

She was a little thankful of their dread because it took the edge off of her own fear. 

Slowly, she reached the side of the tower towards which her dragon was aiming for, and in a calm pace hiding the jumbled mess of her emotions, Rhaenys stepped in the covered staircase revolving around the millenniums old black stoned building.

The tower shook when she was only midway on her path, as Rhaegal finally landed on the flat surface at the top. Rhaenys paused for a brief instant, and closed her eyes to try and regain the modest composure she had obtained only moments ago. She couldn't let herself be weak. Humankind needed her. Westeros, and ultimately Essos when the White Walkers’ magic froze the waters of the Broken Arm, needed her. Most importantly, Jon and Daenerys needed her.

 _She was a Targaryen. She was strong. She was a Targaryen. She was strong. She was …_

The mantra looped in her head incessantly, giving her a small modicum of rigid strength straightening her spine and focusing her mind on her duty.

The steps of the staircase once again passed one by one under her feet as she found a rhythm she knew wasn't one would qualify as courageous, but she still deemed it acceptable under the strenuous circumstances she was in. Now, only one single step parted her from the roof and its current inhabitant. Rhaenys paused fleetingly before the arched doorway that led outside, to catch her breath and consolidate her composure. She set her shoulders straight and in a confident posture and advanced decidedly towards Rhaegal. 

Carefulness was of course needed if she wanted the dragon to remain as calm as she wished it to be, for both of their sakes. Still, she needed to show strength for Rhaegal to accept her, no matter what her visions showed. And yet, she hadn't even looked in his direction.

"Enough cowardice Rhaenys" she told herself and finally gazed upon the green creature in front of her.

At first she lost herself in a sea of green. The green of deep moss growing in dark forests meeting the precious jade found in faraway lands. Scales of every possible shade and nuance of the color fused into each other and formed the picture of a steep hill covered in luxurious nature.

With a second glance, rivers of bronze flowed through the green. The rich streaks sketched across its body a design of lines inter crossing and melting into each other. She could see the linings meeting on his belly, visible in his sitting position, and progressively fading into the dark obsidian already present there.

Her gaze rose upwards in a slow motion and observed its massive head. The eyes of the dragon were even brighter in their glow than the bronze of the ceremonial plates in the faith among many in Asshaï where the pious sacrificed blood. 

It seemed the beast observed her too. She detected in his pools of rich bronze a considerable amount of intelligence that surprised even her, after all her studies on the particular subject and the nature of her dreams.

The dragon seemed calm and aware of who stood in front of him. However, she also knew through the brief glimpses he projected to her in the past, that while he could be the most reserved of his living companions, he was also the most cruel in some ways. The untamed feral rage simmered in his otherwise poised eyes.

He had the means to back up his ferocity: bronze horns so long they could stab two men at once, sharp teeth gleaming in the muted light of the Shadows, claws so strong that in one swipe they had the means to cut a man in half. The strength of his flames was already exuding from his body in heated waves. They would burn hundreds if let loose.

Instinct led her to advance her hand so boldly towards his strong jaw. He would be in control for their bonding. Rhaegal sniffed the skin presented to him and moved to let it get into his fiery mouth. In a sudden and quick move, one of his front teeth cut her palm in a painful slice and his tongue forked to the wounded flesh to pluck the crimson trail from her outstretched hand. The cut swiftly began to heal when the flesh mended from the heat of his tongue.

Rhaenys regained her hand and let it fall at her side.She stood unmoving, waiting. A frown directed at him marred her features after the moment stretched too long. She understood right then, that, unless she showed him she was worthy of him, he wouldn't complete the ritual of bonding.

"Rhaegal. Your turn has come to let your blood for me. You may be stronger, dragon, but I will not bow down to you." 

She paused, to see if he would heed her words, after her calm and determined speech. After a silence void of any action, her voice rose, more powerful and commanding, worthy of a true Targaryen. "I demand your blood!"

Finally, after a brief contemplation from him, he conceded and moved his right wing first towards his fangs, bit deeply in a fleshy part, and then towards her.

A single step, and she grabbed the strong leathery skin with all the force she had, and approached the wound oozing with the darkest red blood she had ever seen. She gulped the liquid immediately after putting her mouth on him.

As it ran down the inside of her body, she could feel the power of dragon blood she always had inside her melding with the blood of her dragon that burned her insides mercilessly. But no pain could be felt, only a bond.

Slowly she extracted herself from the source she sipped on for a long while, and looked into the melted bronze of Rhaegal's eyes unwaveringly, as if daring him to rebuke her claim. He only lowered his head in a small movement to acknowledge the connection they shared from now until the rest of their days.

Rhaenys softly extended her cut hand to his head and at last caressed him as a bonded should. She smiled when he closed his eyes and rumbled quietly because of the small gesture. After a moment spent sharing their new found joy and passing their feelings of completion to the other through their shared mind, she stepped back and went to his side. Her hand enclosed his left horn with a gentle grip as she prudently, not wanting to hurt him, made to sit on the nape of his neck where no protruding bigger scale could be felt.

He understood her aim and lowered his neck a little to ease her first mount, both were unaccustomed to the experience. As she adjusted herself on him, she contemplated giving him orders or letting him decide the moment of their departure.

"Fly for me, Rhaegal the Wild." she finally whispered in his ear.

A mighty roar escaped him as he began flapping his wings to get altitude. She could feel the satisfaction he had of finally finding a rider worthy of him, commanding but respectful, and showing her what he was capable of. Meanwhile, Rhaenys could only gape in admiration at the feeling of being in the airs, flying over the great City in the Shadowlands and feeling the wind caressing her cheeks softly. A smile broke on her face unaccustomed to the motion.

* * *

Jon couldn't believe he accomplished one of the wildest and grandest dreams of mankind in its entirety: he flew! An unrestrainable cheer escaped him.

Wind clawed at the sensitive skin of his body. When the mutinous Crows put fire at him, he remained, however, his garments hadn't. He could feel the bite of the frozen air of the North biting at various places on his legs, arms, torso, back and mostly on the neck and face.

However, he didn't complain. He still felt warmth from the funeral pyre in his core, and the utter joy at looping and soaring through the sky and riding a fucking dragon couldn't be described, even if he wanted to, it made him forget everything else. It was like the completion of a hard journey through the mountains when you finally reached the very top. Never had Jon felt such elation as when he experienced the land of birds. Mayhaps only when his Lord Father’s eyes had shined upon him with pride.

Feeling Viserion under him, providing him with warmth through his scales and contentment through his mind only helped exacerbate the light-headedness of the moment. He discerned joy in the dragon and smiled.

Unfortunately, Jon should have expected the bubble to burst at some point, yet it came much sooner than he would have liked. He should have known that smiling that much in those troubled times couldn't have possibly gone on much longer. It was too unnatural.

As he shared once again his mind with the creature, the acute vision Viserion provided him with saw things a simple human eye couldn't hope to ever see.

In the distance he saw a group of wildlings attacking an encampment exclusively made of women and children. A pang wounded his heart when he realized it was too late. The last child was about to be killed by a man holding a sturdy sparrow and crying unexpected tears when the blade sank into the little boy's heart. The adult knelt in front of the corpse and embraced him briefly before grabbing it and placing it on the already lit massive funeral pyre. Some of the men threw themselves in it too after plunging a dagger through their own guts, the crying man included. 

Jon understood then with heart-wrenching clarity that those were families, giving themselves one last act of desperation and mercy by killing themselves and their own, and burning the dead. They didn't want to succumb to the Others and be enslaved to Eternal Death.

As the shock slowly wore off, Jon saw the reason they decided to act: three groups of undead raced towards the smell of living flesh, encircling the settlement at all sides. He could see the wights running unnaturally fast and without any purpose other than devouring breathing men, Others sitting on their giant frozen horses, or just leading calmly at foot the raised again dead.

Just then, he realized that the location wasn't very far from the cave they left Ghost in and in a split moment a decision had been made. He knew that the call of blood from mystical creatures was almost as strong as that of men from Old Nan's become truths stories, and that his direwolf would be greatly outnumbered. It only left one thing to do: burn them all to ashes.

Viserion understood the intention of his rider without any needed word from Jon. The dragon roared as he flew towards the groups of Others. After a few seconds they reached the one nearer to them. Jon could see that the wights didn't even react other than screeching at the creature when their masters gave them the order to attack. Those masters were inexpressive at the sight of a white dragon dominating the airs.

The beast didn't wait for a signal from Jon, he sent white torching flames at the unnatural beings. Jon could smell the putrid smell of the undead melting, the perpetual cold usually held the unpleasantness back, but at such a scale he guessed it couldn't be contained any more. The wights burned immediately, but the Walkers observed for the most part after retreating slightly from the somewhat slaughter. Jon didn't let them get away as he showed Viserion through their shared minds that they couldn't let them go and regroup with the remaining units.

After they killed all the beings they could see, they repeated the process on the other two batches. Even if all weren't destroyed, it already cut down a substantial amount from the future battles.

As they meant to leave and return to the airs, Jon saw briefly a small troop of mounted frozen horses with White Walkers. One in particular, the apparent leader, unnerved him, he looked at Jon with contemplation. In previous occasions he only read unresponsiveness on their frost filled faces. As if they too were merely puppets. But that one had a reasoning mind and obviously used it to coordinate attacks. That piece of information had been missing all along, now he knew that mankind couldn't merely assume anymore on the matters of eternal Cold. He wanted to go and abolish those too, but saw that Ghost exited from his resting place and crouched, growling at a hidden enemy.

Quickly, the furry companion being more important, they hightailed to the cave and burned right on time a small group of wights trying to jump on the direwolf and overpower him.

He got back on the firm soil after dismounting Viserion and petting him briefly for his good work. Ghost approached them and nuzzled him softly to reassure himself of his well being. Jon knelt and encircled his arms around the giant wolf's head.

"Don't worry about me old friend, Viserion protected me." he relieved Ghost of his worries. He stayed there hugging his only remaining living memory of Winterfell while caressing with one hand the cream scales of his new ally.

As he was about to stand up, his fingers caught while sliding through the thick white pelt of his direwolf on the key he used to wear around his neck, he had switched it to Ghost’s neck while he lived with the wildings, for safekeeping. This was another memory of happier times and a token for a made promise.

"Let's go home now.." he murmured.


	6. Journey

It has been at least a fortnight now since Tyrion started his investigation into dragons and old dragonlore from Valyria. Unfortunately for him, and consequently the queen, he only found mere scraps of information in the Library of Meereen, even if it was rumored to be a great one. Tyrion was aware that in order to be thorough in his research he would have to get away from the city of the Harpy. 

The possibility still remained that old slaver families had the right resources, but he was certain they wouldn't ever let him, a foreigner, a “less than man” as they like to call him behind his back, get access to them. The only possible way he would get to the information would be to take a garrison of Unsullied and breach by force their residences. However, this plan would never come to fruition considering that the situation was already unstable enough by itself, adding to it would be another unnecessary grievance against the Khaleesi’s rule. 

Tyrion had to get the Queen what she wanted or his usefulness, and therefore his stay far away from the clutches of Cersei, would be severely shortened.

Another source would have to be combed through for him to succeed in his pursuit of forgotten knowledge. At the least, Tyrion was pleased with the opportunity it gave him to not only travel as it had always been his wish, but also to consult knowledge he would not have been privy to in Westeros.

The decision to firstly go to Volantis had been quick and easy to take. The Queen had asked him why that city in particular, and in his private thoughts Tyrion once again doubted the rightness of aiding such an inexperienced and unknowledgeable conqueror in her quest. 

Nonetheless, his answer had been fairly simple: Volantis had been founded by the Valyrian Dragonlords as the first outpost of the Empire. It was most probably certain that they had at least a few texts on the subject of dragons and dragonlords.

After days on the sea where thankfully the conditions had been much more amenable than his journey to Essos (even a bed in a tiny little cabin that reeked of piss and retch was better than the rat infested merchandise that had kept him company in the bottom of the first boat), he finally reached the Free City of Volantis. He willingly admitted that the famed Long Bridge braving the mighty waters of the Rhoyne, with all its buildings and people bustling about, was a sight to behold as he entered the Harbor of Volantis.

The feat of engineering in itself was fascinating! He could hardly wait to study it up close, and walk through the varying stalls and inns bustling with people, scents and noise. 

Tyrion Lannister was a man that greatly appreciated art and beauty, unlike most of the witless men from Westeros that mostly thought through their dicks, and it was only right to say that those Valyrians certainly knew how to build and show off to any possible visitor. The glimmer of the blue water reflecting on the polished stone only added to his fascination as he gazed at the centuries old memorial of Valyria's power.

As he descended from the ship he had been cramped in for too long a time to his taste, rejoicing in the feel of steady ground underneath his feet, he was greeted by an envoy of one of the current ruling triarchs: Doniphos Paenymion. Just as he expected.

Tyrion had not just decided to go to Volantis on a simple whim. He just wasn't that kind of man. Jaime often liked to repeat that he was the brains, whereas he himself had been the brawn and the bitch Cersei, the beauty. Maybe not with those particular words, he conceded. Unless the circumstances were so dire, or he hadn't the time to, Tyrion always liked to be as prepared as possible. One doesn't survive as a wretched Imp with Cersei and Tywin Lannister as relatives only with luck, or escape alive from the devil hole that is King's Landing without a great mind for machinations and perceptiveness.

He knew that going to Volantis in those times was risky to say the least. The tiger triarch, from the military party, Malaquo Maegyr was incessantly trying, without any real results, to squash the rising tensions borne from R’hollor’s servants calling for Azor Ahai and the fire Queen. Varys had informed him that plots were forming in the shadows to assassinate the Khaleesi before the unrest brought too much instability in the city and in their trades with the rest of Essos.

Varys' birds did a good job in painting the current political picture in Volantis. Not only with the tiger but also one of the elephants, the diplomats. Nyessos Vhassar was one of the triarch majority. The man had based his fortune on the slave market and selling his power to the best bidder: Illyrio Mopatis and the other Pentoshi Magisters, Qohor, Yunkai… it didn't matter as long the coin was there. Daenerys posed the biggest threat to the slavery market he had ever encountered, it was only natural he too made plans to dispose of her. Those were meant to be secret and underhanded of course, but a well placed bird as a courtier or servant had its utility.

Among the ruling triarchs, only Doniphos wasn't hostile to the Queen of Meereen, or he only hadn’t yet expressed his hostility, who really knew... He wasn't the most wealthy nor the most powerful of the triarchs, but he was well liked, respected and a good diplomat. None could be reelected that many times without any skills, and the man who was now in his sixties made his political debut in his late twenties. Really, Tyrion mused, Doniphos had been the only true option he could bet on once he decided to go to Volantis.

Of course, the westerosi didn't expect his help to be free nor offered without any compensation, the conditions had just not been exposed yet. 

So, Tyrion wasn't surprised when the envoy that came to greet them at the harbor led him directly to the ruler's personal rooms in the Round House, where the triarchs executed their official duties.

The man didn't quite look like what Tyrion would have imagined an older powerful ruler of a Free City would. He did have the typical clothing: a burgundy cloth wrapped around his head to show his political inclinations, the jewelry and permanent drawings on his arms to show his wealth and knowledge, and the white and light lavender airy robes with the golden belt honoring their Valyrian heritage. Despite his tall and proud stature, standing straight with the aura of an experienced and cunning leader, not unlike Tyrion’s father, there still remained an air of calmness and humbleness in his body language. His welcoming face, that had smiling lines and clear, almost transparent brown hazy eyes that somehow appeared nonthreatening only furthered his ability to put anyone at ease.

The looks didn't make the man as he himself knew very well, but the Lannister Imp always knew that reading well someone’s eyes and the minute details of how they moved and talked was one of the surest ways of seeing through to their truths. He couldn't detect any ill intention, only careful examination and intelligence.

"Welcome to Volantis, Lord Tyrion." His accent was strong but from lack of practicing, not inadequacy. "I hope your travel has been uneventful and swift. Please, sit." He gestured with his hand towards the low cushioned seat at his right and glanced toward a servant present in the corner. Tyrion was presented with a tray full of arranged fruits, some dried and some still glistening with juices, an empty cup and a few fresh drinks. He eagerly poured himself a glass and drank it in the span of a few moments, soothing his parched throat.

"Thank you, your Honor. It has been as pleasurable as one could expect on a merchant's ship. I thank you for your generous welcome."

Doniphos smiled a little at the use of the correct term, and accepted his thanks silently with a nod of his head. Tyrion could see that the Volantene observed him carefully. It was only fair, he guessed. A moment of mutual assessment must pass before every good negotiation between skilled opponents. It was clear that both knew why they were here, it was only a question of which approach would be best with that particular interlocutor.

"Let us not exchange meaningless courtesies and words full of void, Lord Tyrion, I heard you are a man that likes to cut to the essential matter. Your impatience and cunning can also be read in your eyes and betrays you, I am afraid. " Doniphos adressed him with a playful smirk.

Tyrion smiled ruefully at that, content that he wouldn't have to hold back. "You are not wrong, your Honor. Let us be frank then. Thank you for allowing me to search through the Great Library, I have always been an avid reader and researching such an important subject for the Queen herself only makes me gladder to go through the great walls of such a place. I would imagine that bestowing me with such a privilege will not paint you kindly in the eyes of your fellow Triarchs. So, what I would like to know, Master Paenymion, is what will you get out of it?"

The old man smiled a little while rubbing his finger on his mouth in contemplation, then, he swiftly stood up from his golden stuffed low chair and walked to the grand open windows looking out to the vastness of the ancient city. He hummed silently and admired for a moment longer the populated streets, the energetic running children, the Great Market full of merchandise and people. As he sat back on his seat he replied.

"I respect the heritage of Volantis my Lord. It was made by dragonlords, it obeyed dragonlords and it mourned for the dragonlords' absence. Most of the Valyrians died through the Great Doom, only the Targaryens subsisted thanks to their gift of foresight…"

_ 'Interesting start…'  _ Tyrion thought.

"… and escaped to other territories. Through my family, the old Valyrian religion has been passed on and vowed to. One could say that I represent the ancient Volantis. I could wish no ill to the reincarnation of Dragonlords in the person of the Queen Daenerys. Furthermore, I don't want my city burned by the dragons because of greed and fear men have for a strong woman. The dragon that passed over Braavos and the inner lands some days ago was enough of a warning to me. The whole city is bursting with people speaking about the sightings." He paused briefly.

_ 'A dragon?! Which one?'  _ Tyrion didn’t voice his questions, letting his host finish.

The Volantene triarch continued after a moment. "The Dragonqueen has an ally in me. However, nothing comes without a price as you may know very well if stories of your political prowess are accurate. I already have riches and power, it would be pointless to ask for that. My son is already married, and my line is continued, I have no need of future political unions. Still, there a few things I ask for. Firstly, I would like the Targaryen Queen to visit Volantis, people here remember fondly dragonlords and deserve to see their history alive once again, I understand if it isn't possible in soon times, but eventually it could be beneficial to the Dragonqueen. Also, my term as one of the Triarchs comes to an end in a couple of fortnights, and I will not be reelected once more, my time has ended in the Great Service, and continuing would only endanger me and mine… As my rule ends, I wish to be named one of her Grace's personal advisers to aid her...

And, lastly, I wish that she let Volantis free. Although the Old City has been founded by Valyria, and its people claim proudly their legacy, I fear it is not prepared for the times of dragon's rule. The system isn't perfect, but it works. People don't live in despair nor famine. Slavery exists but cruelty is punished. My wish is that the Dragonqueen respects our traditions and status as a Free City.

I would like it if you could transmit my … recommendations, to the Dragonqueen. Other subjects could be discussed, of course, if her Grace wishes so. As a token of honor, I will lodge you and let the Library free of access. Is it amenable to you?"

Tyrion sat and thought out every possible outcome for a long moment of silence. Rudeness wasn't something he cared about if it lead to stupidity of actions.

"I cannot guarantee that the Queen will address every single demand, but I can say that I will do everything possible to make you meet her, or at least discuss it fully with her on your behalf. I respect your opinion and think that what you ask for is understandable and the mark of a worthy man. In the meantime, I would like to thank you for your hospitality."

Their meeting soon ended with a brief meal and sweet Volantene ale, and Doniphos led him towards his family's mansion on elephant. Never had Tyrion thought he would one day ride an elephant. They talked all the way through the city. Apparently, a dragon of light scales has been spotted through the skies going north-west some days ago, and either scared the populace or made them kneel in front of R'hollor's servant. Only one of them. No signs of Rhaegal. Tyrion sighed when he imagined Daenerys' reaction to the letter he just sent her.

* * *

_ « My beautiful baby boy, Jon… » _

The few words that were written on the sealed letter already broke his mind. The penmanship of the author indicated it could only be a woman. The elongated whirls, the curls of the letters and the elegance and airiness the writing shared with the reader were signs that couldn't be wrongly transmitted. There was also strength, in the hard press of the ink, the forceful punctuation, yet, there was a grace that no man could ever hope to imitate. 

Penmanship notwithstanding, only those first few words of the first letter he had found were needed to identify the person as female. His mother…

He sat down heavily on the cold grounds of the crypts and raised his hands to his head. Even after the life he lived, the recent upheavals of his young life, heavy tears still managed to break away from the hold he tried so desperately to have on them. Sobs that he would have hoped to contain broke through and left his sore throat.


	7. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for the slight delay : two chapters in a day!
> 
> Also, a big, big, thank you for every kudo, sub, review, I'm really grateful for the positive feedback. I'll try to reply to the comments as soon as possible!

His throat, just as the rest of his aching body, was sore and parched after inhaling the frigid cold air of the north on the back of a dragon for so many hours. 

Jon had mounted Viserion and they flew, Ghost in his clutches when they passed over the Wall, towards the western end of the gigantic construction. They had passed over the empty and decrepit Shadow Tower and after a few miles deposited Ghost to the earth he belonged to. From there on, they made a slow descend in a straight line to reach Winterfell, with stops along the way to take care of their needs, mostly his. 

Along the way, Jon scraped some clothing to put on. A pair of trousers here, a linen undershirt and shoes there, a woolen coat too large on his stature found hanging on a branch… Despite the dragon’s high heat emanating under him, and the odd warmth present in his blood ever since he escaped the pyre, Jon still felt not only uncomfortable being constantly nude, but also a victim to the merciless bite of the winds, especially so high in the airs. 

They had flown at a moderate pace in order to not leave the direwolf behind and to better examine the current situation in the Northern Land. Still, a couple of days passed by, the downside of being the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, he guessed.

Jon was heartbroken by the sights of hungry and afraid people running from soldiers in one of the towns, or beggar children being spit on and molested by the cruel Bolton men. The screams of the children, and women nearby being raped ruthlessly by savages would haunt him for the rest of his days. Where were the true men from the North that would rather die than harm an innocent child? Were they that powerless in front of the traitors?

As he saw one of his father's bannerman's body hanging from the wall of the fort watching over the Long Lake, flayed with only his face and cloak intact, the Stark banner still in his hand, he understood. Terror was a powerful way to make people obey.

It tore his heart apart when he realized that he couldn't do anything for the moment. 

Unless he wanted to be found and the surprise effect to be taken away, he must beware and practice caution, constantly. Thankfully, the freezing winds of the growing winter made people stay inside as much as possible, and the falling snow concealed them further so nobody ringed the alarm at seeing a giant dragon flying over their heads.

As they reached the heart of the Wolfswood, Jon made Viserion carefully land in a cleared area. Just before landing he could see the First Keep protruding from the black burned mass that was the great castle and concluded that with a few hours of walking he would reach Winterfell.

Before going by foot alone, he decided to wait for Ghost and in the meantime try to scavenge some food. The booty was meager with only a few roots for chewing and some nuts, but it was enough for the moment, Jon couldn't take the risk of making a fire and being spotted this close to the castle.

Not long after, they left Viserion to sleep and be on the look out for any sign of distress from him through their mind sharing. The trek through the woods was uneventful for the most part, only meeting some hungry wolves that bowed to the direwolf and avoiding a few drunken guards in the vicinity of the castle.

Jon didn’t even contemplate barging in through the grand doors, he would be recognized immediately by his Stark features. He had to take one of the secret passages they had discovered as children with Robb, and later Arya joining on their quests.

The entry of the tunnel was behind a great willow. It was a lot more cramped than he remembered, and Ghost, now almost fully grown, couldn't go through. He told him to wait at the outer exit of the kennels so that he could hear if he was needed.

After a long while of blindly kneeling and sweating in the paved way, Jon finally arrived near the inner wall of the Old Keep in a small alcove almost entirely hidden from view and easily overlooked. It was not far from the stairway leading down to the crypts. He only had to cross one corner of the inner grounds. Unfortunately for him, there was a lot of agitation and movement right at this time, just before dinner. It was quite unusual, considering that the Old Keep was normally nearly deserted because of its state, but Jon dismissed the questions he had, knowing with certainty he could not get any answers right then. He had to wait for the opportune moment to act.

In the meantime he observed the various runnings in the ancient part of the castle. Drunken men guarding the walls, archers raping the female servants out in the open, a soldier cutting a finger off one of the young stable boys and what seemed to be a young Bolton, judging by his clothing, grabbing a young crying Lady by the hair and making her walk behind him.

"Come my dear Arya, and stop your pitiful whining or I will fuck you so hard right in the middle of the yard that you will bleed!" his disgusting voice yelled.

_ 'Arya?!" _

At the moment Jon was about to leap towards the couple the girl turned her head towards him letting him see her features more clearly. It was not Arya. It was Jeyne Pool. Sansa's childhood friend. Why was she taken for his sister ? Hadn’t she gone with Sansa to King’s Landing what seemed now like so long ago ? Questions upon questions piled up in his mind.

Their eyes met, even if he was still a little concealed in the shadows of the nook he had almost gotten out of in his initial rage, and her eyes widened of surprise. Tears sprung up, from the shame, he guessed, and painful helplessness he had witnessed. He only nodded to show her it truly was him. He promised himself to try to help her when he could.

After a few more hours of waiting, crouched in the alcove, ruminating endlessly with the rage and unfairness of it all, Jon saw the grounds finally clearing up as night descended fully on Winterfell. 

He moved swiftly towards the passage leading to the stairs of the crypts. His walk was vigilant, always on the look out for a guard or a servant, but luckily they were too busy, drunk and overconfident to believe someone could infiltrate the castle they took.

The sound of his soles hitting the stone steps was muffled by the oppressive atmosphere, as if his ancestors tried to protect him themselves. The heavy door that in his memories always croaked a little when pushed didn't even make a sound when he opened it to get inside the dark cavernous entrance. No torch inside. Thankfully, he had anticipated and grabbed one along the way just before the entering.

He stepped inside silently, respectful of the past Starks’ respite. With each step he looked at the faces of each statue, paid his respects and vowed each time more forcefully that Winterfell won't be lost eternally. A Stark will once again dwell in the great walls that Bran the Builder made for his descendants, this he swore upon the blood flowing through his veins.

As he reached the last sculptures, he knelt in front of each, kissed the cold stone on their carved foreheads, and looked for a lock. 

First, he searched around his grandfather's Rickard, thinking that the last Lord before his own father would be the logical choice, but none were found. The same result occured when investigating around his uncle Brandon’s statue. Finally, and he thought he should have guessed as much for the various times his father talked to him about her, he found just aside his aunt Lyanna's sadly smiling portrait a small piece of metal that slid to reveal a lock.

He took off the key that hung around his neck, the precious gift he guarded since the last time he saw Ned Stark, and kissed it gently, as if saying goodbye to covered truths. 

The key unlocked a small compartment where a beautiful wooden box was stored. The wood was dark and engraved with golden drawings and encrusted jewels.

It was when he opened it that his world was further shaken up. As if a dragon and reviving thanks to his own funeral pyre weren't enough.

Now, he admired the unopened letter that made him weep like a babe with only a few words. He knew that whatever he would find inside, it would inexorably change his entire life. If the great Ned Stark had to conceal the truth of his mother for so long, not even revealing it to his wife for so many years, nor the King as he ordered it, could only mean that whatever the revelation was, it could only be of utmost importance.

After a few moments where he caressed gently the rich feel of the parchment, weighing down his options, and going through the rest of the box where he found jewels, rubies and various texts (mostly journals), he again reached for the precious letter.

Jon could not delay the truth any longer. The entire length of his life had been enough.

He broke the seal representing a crown and opened the letter.

_ "My baby boy, _

_ I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and healthy. It breaks my heart to write this instead of saying it to you as a young handsome man, but I feel my body already fading away to nothingness. If Ned respected his promise, as I know with my entire heart he will for that is the man he is, you have been protected and kept away from numerous people. You will probably think you are his bastard, a Snow, or maybe Sand if he instead takes in consideration that you were born in Dorne. However, dear, it is not the truth of the matter..." _

Just as he was going to continue his read with tears coursing down his unshaven cheeks, he heard a call of "Intruder!" resonating just outside the door in the staircase. Guess someone saw his footprints thanks to the muddy snow and the missing torch.

He quickly put back the letter in the wooden box and shut it down. He grabbed the key and put the panel back in place to conceal the empty space. He knew that further down the crypts, there was a trapdoor made for aeration that he could use to escape. He smothered the fire of the torch with the lid and ran blindly in the dark to the end of the room.

_ 'Viserion! Please, lend me your sight!'  _ He didn't know if the dragon heard him, so he repeated it like a psalm until his vision changed.

Suddenly, he could see in the dark just as clearly as in the peak of the day. He could hear the door he had shut down forcefully before, as he knew it was harder to open thanks to the uneven stone of the porch and ran even faster.

He could see the small forged door hanging a little open, as if someone forgot to close it entirely in their precipitation, and reached for it. It groaned a little as he widened the hole, but thankfully the guards still hadn't opened the great door. He quickly jumped inside and closed the door behind him. He crawled up through the confined, quite long tunnel leading towards the outer wall just aside from the smelling kennels.

As he reached the opening, he could see that the yard was agitated with running guards and the hounds all barked from the agitation. A guard stood a few feet to his right. He looked back to see if anybody was in the small passage with him, and then turned a little to reach his waistband.

He took in hand the small dagger he scavenged while looking for clothing, and opened suddenly the forged trapdoor. The sound startled the swaying man, probably one of the overconfident drunkards, and he didn't even have the time to react as the blade lodged itself deeply into his throat. A gurgling sound was the last thing he would ever do.

He got out of the cramped space swiftly and closed the door. Prudently, as to not make any undue sounds, he approached the dead body and retook his dagger. Slowly, he made his way to the kennels, the box tightly lodged under his left arm.

The dogs still barked, covering the sounds of his steps. As he passed an empty kennel, a murmur made him jump slightly.

"I fed Ghost, Jon. I hope you will come back, take back the north for the true northerners."

He looked at the man that startled him so much and recognized Old Kriegson, the kennel master that taught them how to take care of their wolves and horses. He embraced the man swiftly.

"Thank you, old friend. I'm happy to see you well and alive. I promise. If there are others out there that share your opinion tell them: soon. I will send Ghost in a few days with a message."

The old northerner with his great beard nodded. "Go! I will grant you some time."

Jon looked into his eyes once more, nodded and ran to the secret door that the hunters and kennel masters used when they didn't want to use the Hunter's Gate, and that he discovered during one of the feasts he escaped.

Ghost waited for him outside at the border of the trees so that they wouldn't take sight of him. Together, they ran through the Wolfswood as fast as possible, while he could hear guards yelling after him.

Fortunately, since Viserion's vision just left his eyes, he knew those woods by heart, and found some big rocks making a little space to hide in. Ghost hid himself in small shrubs covered in snow, melting with the surroundings thanks to the whiteness of his pelt.

He guessed that the rest of the letter would be read elsewhere then since the light of the moon wouldn't be enough in the night he will spend in the woods. Still, despite the constant vigilance, the hunger, the cold night, the tiredness in his limbs, only one thing occupied his mind incessantly.

_ Was he not Ned Stark's bastard? _


	8. Lessons

Being blind made her learn a great many things she would not have guessed even existed beforehand. Arya now knew to see without sight. Observe only with sounds, air and touch. Judge without the lying appearances. Those were deadly indeed.

Sometimes, the lines on a man's face, or the crease on a woman's lips spelled to everyone willing to look the hardships they endured during the course of their lives. The dark spots acquired from work under the unforgiving sun, the frail feeling of bony hands lacking meat grasping for strength they did not have, the slouch bending a peasant's back even as he walked through the market… all those were supremely telling. She knew that from her wanderings in Winterfell, visiting bakers, smiths and simple land workers, when the nickname 'Arya Underfoot' had been gifted to her. She knew it from her first tasks with the Faceless Men too.

However, without sight, how does a girl read those signs ? "A girl will learn." Jaqen had only told her.

A girl learned to see in other ways. Once the overbearing smell of sea, and fish became a background other notes could tell a story on their own. The putrefaction of rotten food lingering on poorer folks, the muskiness of unwashed seamen, the aggressive perfume adorning the whores, trying to mask the smell of uncleanliness and bodily fluids. Smell was one of the surest ways of orientation once the marks are established in the mind. The sea on one side, the bakery on the other, and the flowers of the richer area the furthest away.

A girl also understood that touch is much more important than one usually knows. Nothing can quite indicate the state of things as well as a finger brushing the walls around to follow the wished path, nor discern an ill-intentioned client as a press on the pulsing wrist of a liar or the grooves on the wrong coins put in a girl’s palm.

A girl listens to the movements of body, the sounds of rustling in the clothing (soft for the richer silks and more rugged for the harsher inexpensive wool or linen), the various intonations in a man's voice transposing their emotions even when the said words mask them: anger, fear, disgust, greed, lust. As she went blind longer and longer, her ears told her much more easily where a lie dwells. What seemed like the harshest punishment now invoked gratitude and satisfaction in Arya.

Because now Arya knew how to become a girl without a name convincingly. She did not know the intended purpose of making her sightless, she guessed it was to make her learn humility and obedience, to rely solely on their wisdom and orders. Instead, she learned skill and defiance. 

Her name, that they wanted to make her forget, she will never let go. But she will hide it masterfully. Controlling one's voice, body and voice became a daily exercise she, as time passed, excelled in. It became gradually second nature to the wild girl she had been. She was grateful for the unfortunate blindness because it made her more mature, less hasty, and most importantly : stronger.

And while awake it never failed her.

However, that strength shattered and rebuilt itself each and every time that she shared a wolf dream with Nymeria. It broke her heart and mended it at the same moment. She saw her direwolf leading a pack, fasting on various preys: sheep, dogs, deers and sometimes men. The smaller gray brothers were wary to eat the human flesh, but Nymeria was not. A prey was meat. She ate those that were harmful to her, threatening her packs, the one she conquered and ruled, and the one she was born with, that will always hold a link to her.

The thoughts of pack reminded Arya of her missing family, their uncertain status. Of the moment she heard Nymeria howling incessantly when Lady was butchered, and when she felt through her direwolf the link connecting her with Grey Wind and its human mate die forever. Arya had not needed the written confirmation or whispers on the roads to know that Robb, the Young Wolf, King in the North, had been murdered, betrayed, she had felt it deep in her guts.

Her dreams of Nymeria showed her the path her direwolf and the wolf pack took. Through their link she knew that even though the coming winter diminished the amount of prey they found, the female direwolf had to go away from the watery lands that still was bustling with resources. Even if she had to abandon the small gray cousins on the road to reach her goal.

In one of those dreams, that she had now every time she went to sleep, she saw through the wolf's eyes that they were headed towards large mountains leaving sometimes space for green valleys. Arya recognized it immediately as the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale. Why was Nymeria going to the east towards the Eyrie? It didn't make sense. She should head north if she was leaving the Riverlands.

The answer came to her days after that particular dream. Nymeria was hidden behind tall trees and advancing slowly towards someone.

Her hair was darker than she remembered even under the dark light of dusk, her height even greater (she would not be surprised to learn she was sometimes taller than men), her figure as graceful and softly enticing as always, and her beauty still remained unparalleled. However the hurried and silent steps of her walk, the look of urgency mixed with what she recognized now as cold acceptance shook her profoundly. A girl recognized her instantly.  _ Arya _ recognized her.

She looked worried, nervous, afraid and seemed to be running from someone. And still, she remained as proud and determined as a true wolf.

Sansa was alive! She had changed, grown up, but Arya felt pride and relief surge through her.

She woke up abruptly in the cold room she had been assigned to sleep in and wept for her sister.

The sister she had despised as a child. The sister that made her feel uncomfortable. But also the sister she missed dearly and never loved more than at that instant.

_ 'Nymeria, keep her safe, please.'  _ She willed her wild companion to hear her plea, even if an entire sea separated them.

It gave her purpose to be the best liar she could be. She had to learn everything she could, because soon, her pack she will rejoin. She had to survive and win the game of faceless lies.

* * *

The bleak light of the morning sun woke Jon from his uncomfortable sleep in between the hard granites that concealed him for the night. He could feel and see the piles of snow amounting the high points of his face and body, covering the furs on his skin. Once again, he marveled at the changes his body went through : even with the worsening winter, and the all-encompassing frozen wind, Jon knew it was cold, the kind of cold that killed indiscriminately, yet he only felt a slight discomfort.

Jon looked out of the mounts of stone to assess the surroundings for any hostile presence. He knew there must still be patrols, or at least a new batch of patrolmen coming with the dawn. Carefully, once he surmised no one was near, he climbed with some difficulty out of his improvised entrenchment. 

"Ghost!" he called in a mixture of a shout and a whisper. After a longer while than he expected, he looked left as he heard a small branch cracking under the beast's weight. Relief surged through him at the sight of the huge wolf holding in his jaws a few snow rabbits. 

Jon salivated at the sight of the fresh meat. He hadn't eaten anything but hard roots and a meager amount of frozen fruit the day before, and after his adventures in Winterfell, hunger gnawed at his guts unrelentingly.

He decided to make his need wait and first reunite with Viserion in order to find a place to rest properly and where they would be able to start a fire without a huge risk of discovery. He walked towards the west, using trees and stones they, his siblings and him, marked as rambunctious children to orient himself in the Wolfswood.

As he heard a grunt coming from what could only be a giant animal, Jon surmised he did not lose his ability to travel through the dangerous forest even after the substantial time he was parted from Winterfell. Only a dragon could emit such a sound.

The sight of its white scales and golden horns appeased him. Made him feel safe. He approached the dragon and slowly caressed his powerful snout. His other hand descended to the snow white pelt of his old friend.

And, for a brief moment suspended in time, Jon felt oddly at piece, surrounded by his bonded companions. He felt absolved for a swift second of all the heaviness of the recent days, able to take a breath without the weight holding his shoulders down.

The reality only hit harder after the bliss.

The box he had safely guarded under his arm throughout his entire journey among the frozen leaves and trees, suddenly felt oppressive to him. 

He knew that whatever the revelations in his mother's letter are, they would have the effect of an earthquake on his life. Already knowing that Ned Stark was not, in fact, his blood, his father, put tears in his eyes and uncertainty in his heart.

Slowly, he detached himself from his two bonded beasts and decided that staying in the clearing would not remain safe for much longer.

He asked Viserion through their link if he could look out for a big enough cave or abandoned place in order for them to rest and eat. The dragon, to show his compliance, lowered slightly his head and moved it from left to right, inspecting the surroundings with his eyes.

In a sudden movement, he took flight. Jon, through Viserion’s eyes, could see himself underneath, Ghost at his side, and then the dragon looked to the right, where in a few hundred feet he could see the entrance of a cave in the start of the nearest mountains, big enough to even host a fully grown dragon comfortably.

He nodded to the dragon in appreciation and advised him to find a prey for himself. As he marched in the direction he had been showed, he saw the majestic beast fly over their heads and hunt for food.

The walk had been unhurried and careful. Jon did not want to fall in a guard's ambush in his haste for shelter and food. His feet on the frozen ground were soft and Ghost remained as silent as ever by his side. On the way, he grabbed some provisions such as winter berries and nuts to eat when the meat disappeared.

The opening of the natural cave was wide but not very high. He had to crouch a little bit to pass through the threshold without hitting himself. He explored further down the cave and finally reached a wider room where traces of human occupation could be seen: polished rocks to rest on, engravings on the walls and a circle of stones where the fire was intended to be.

Jon put down the box he had carried until then on one of the banks. 

"Ghost, stay here and guard the treasure please. It is very important. I am going just outside to fetch wood for the pit."

As he came back, arms laden with pieces of wood he found on the ground or took from dead trees, he saw Viserion was already there, sleeping after the feast he had no doubt swallowed just before.

He arranged a small mount of kindling in the ring of stones, and briefly, wondered how to start the fire. There were no pieces dry enough to have a strong enough friction to create a spark. He looked at Viserion, smiled, and asked him to send fire to the prepared pyre.

Unfortunately for his clothing, he did not have the presence of mind to consider the strength and wideness of the dragonfire. The few furs he had picked up along the way, singed at the ends, obscuring his vision for a brief second with the released smoke.

He laughed after a moment of surprise. The laughter appeased the tensions that had been building up inside him. It released a wave of content through his nerves that calmed him immediately while a small smile came to rest on his lips.

The rabbit, that Ghost had killed for him, after a bout on a spindle above the fire, while dry, overly-charred and unseasoned, had been succulent on his empty stomach. He had skinned the carcass and carefully cut through the fur to use it in the future. The life among the black cloaks had taught him never to throw anything away, everything can be salvaged and used when living in such harsh conditions.

Satiety made him languish and sleepy. However, he resisted the call of his coming dreams and instead succumbed to the curiosity that has been gnawing at him since the crypts. He opened the burdening box to reach for his mother's letter.

Jon grabbed it carefully, a subconscious part of him fearing it will tear or simply disintegrate if not handled with care. He contemplated for a long moment the wisdom of opening it.

In a small part of his mind, Jon was convinced he could still go back to the way things were before his world was shaken up with only a few words. He could still remain the baseborn son of the great Eddard 'Ned' Stark. He could still remain part of the loving family he had grown up with. He could still remain the problem of Lady Stark.

But, he knew, in his heart and troubled conscience, none of those things could be. They were all dead. Betrayed. Tortured. Butchered. Burned. Injustice had been the prize for their honor and power.

Still, reading the letter would only be a confirmation that everything he had ever known would crumble just before him. His family. His home. His watch on the Wall that died with him when they betrayed him. Everything would be left in the ashes of dragonfire, and Jon was not sure if he was ready to face it.

After moments of contemplation, turning and carressing the richness of the paper continuously, he decided that he could not cower in front of the truth. If he did, he would only dishonor them all. His brother Robb, his precious Arya, his father Ned. He would always consider him as that he had then decided, whatever the actual truth of his parentage may be. He raised him as his own, and he could not,  _ would not _ , renounce him.

His mind made up, and barriers of memories put at the forefront of his thoughts, his fingers unrolled the letter and held the elegant cursive writing in front of him.

" _ My baby boy, _

_ I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and healthy. It breaks my heart that I can not say all those words to you, and instead must write them. Alas, I feel my body already fading away to nothingness. If Ned respected his promise, as I know he will, for that is the man he is, you have been protected and kept away from numerous people. You will probably think you are his bastard, a Snow, or maybe Sand if he instead takes in consideration that you were born in Dorne. However, dear, it is not the truth of the matter… _

_ I hope against all hope that Ned has prepared you for the truth, but I know in my heart and conscience that it shall probably not be the case. If he protects you, he can most certainly not tell you. _

_ I am your mother. Lyanna Stark. Daughter of Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra of House Stark, Wardens of the North, Kings of the First Men. Sister to Brandon, Eddard and Benjen. Be assured that you remain as much of a Stark as you always thought you were, my little wolf. However, ice is not the only thing that flows through your veins my child. Fire is just as powerful in you. _

_ You are not only Direwolf, you are also Dragon. _

_ In you, runs the blood of kings. Kings of the North and Winter, and also Targaryen kings. Your father was the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. _

_ Please do not make assumptions in your haste. I know that erroneous stories fly through the tongues of the Realm, the result of scheming evil minds, but the truth you will discover in the journals I left for you. _

_ My little Jon, know that both of your parents loved you very much. Your father sang to you when you were still in the womb and I hope some parts of him and his gentle soul passed in you. _

_ The forces of life are slowly leaving me, I fear. Please beware of danger. Many will seek to kill you, use you or manipulate you for the blood in your veins and your rightful claim to the throne. Protect yourself. Protect those you held dear to the full extent of your abilities. Do not cower in face of fear, make it your greatest source of power. Be courageous and honorable for Winter is Coming. _

_ Make your own rules and be your own man. Do not let established ways and customs make a slave out of you. _

_ Do not be full of yourself, but have confidence. Do not obey blindly, but respect others. Treat everyone with the same regard: peasants, farmers, whores, beggars and lords, all are your people. _

_ Be safe my love. Live fully. Be wise. Make love, honor and strength the words of your life my son. _

_ Your mother that loves you deeply and will remain by your side forever, _

_ Lyanna of Houses Stark and Targaryen." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay on this ! 
> 
> If you're confused about Arya's bit, please note that I changed canon in that the whole Sandor/Arya/ Brotherhood plot happened differently, but it will be fleshed out in later chapters !


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